


For Whom He Gives His Life

by jasmonroe



Category: Cold War - Fandom
Genre: Cold War, M/M, Soviet Union, joseph is tired, this has a wild time skip, this is such a cliché but it works, wrote this for a class and i met the word limit so oops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29268462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jasmonroe/pseuds/jasmonroe
Summary: uhh cold war gays go brrr
Relationships: Jospeh Belov/Elias Lindemann
Kudos: 1





	For Whom He Gives His Life

**Author's Note:**

> dont attribute what is said about communism in here to what i believe! joseph grew up with it so he has a certain fixed view on it having the experience of it!

“-At the clear loss of your dedication to this army, and the rejection of Senior Lieutenant, you will be stationed over by our fellow officers in East Berlin. It is not a difficult job, but it seems as if you’d rather lower yourself to such. You will look forward to knowing that the act of shooting is not as necessary here. Dasvidaniya.”

The Russian couldn't recall if he had such a pit in his stomach as he did now at the words. Those harsh syllables stung worse than the bullet embedded in his chest, and his mind choked on the thought of an alternate outcome. For a man who seemingly knew everything and always had something to say, nothing came in that moment except for his mouth slightly agape with the aftermath being a quick nod. Despite his sorrow on the matter, he knew the fatal truth of what could have happened if he stayed. If he had caused a protest and proved he was capable of staying, it would give him the same reaction he felt upon sitting by a mere wall.

‘A mere wall.’ Joseph scribbled hastily into the torn journal. You could assume by the cracked leather exterior that the small book had seen the terrors of war as he had, and you’d be correct. It had been affected by such terrors, it had been with him throughout his every second, every step taken as a red soldier, and it was no different now.

As his eyes stayed set on the words, abhorrence pierced him through his chest, sticking its bayonet up to his mind before tears attempted at a revolt for freedom. The words were quickly erased from the aged and fittingly maimed paper, but the thought of a word so erroneous showed no mercy as it dwelled in it’s placement.

How could he call such a wall mere? The wall that tore families apart, the one that was stained with the blood of civilians who wanted nothing less than the same objective he did. The guard felt his fingers grow numb as he set his hand on the congelated wall, brushing off the filth oppressing the untold voices’ murals, depictions of the harsh reality they endured. 

His eyes darted over to another man just a few meters from him attempting to find the comfort against the corporeal representation of horrid. Joseph studied him like he had been a scripture, mind racing with thoughts as if he was an officer once again. But it wasn’t patriotism nor the code of conduct which he had memorized that filled his head, it was the aching to go against the very government he had fought to save.  
Was this truly the intent of Communism? His head traveled to the utterance of his grand-father, anecdotes of the age of Romanovs. 

“Tsar Nicholas had no time for his own people,” The older man scoffed, despise fell from his lips. Joseph had remembered the tone better than the words of Das Kapital. “-Always off at festivities while the people starved.”

The world he lived in seemed almost a mirrored image. A land that had defied the rule of a tyrant found itself in the same manner of starvation and dictatorial control. Once he was relocated to his current post, it felt nothing more than a meager shift in the surface he roamed.

‘Communism is at best a disease which beats it’s host into submission.’ He watched his pencil’s jeté across the paper, taking the place of where his wrongdoings were once evident, before stowing it away as if a secret fugitive into a pocket of the very uniform which stained his mind of a second fatal truth. The divide could not be mended if not done by the people themselves.

A slight hum escaped Joseph’s closed lips. It was a war tune he had uncovered during his time in military training. All that his mind held was bestowed by his training as an officer. The cathedrals of words built by his lecturers were ignited by the true aim of life for a man, forgotten as the flame flickered into disappearance. War was an emblem of conundrum, each step pressed against the terrain left you in the grasp of chance. You were either withheld by such grasp until the ground you laid upon emitted a calmness that it then felt correct for the final breath to be taken, or mercy found no verdict and declared you a victim until your other boot leaves it’s new mark in the soil. There was no time for the art of forming words and abstract thoughts appealing to the mind, the clock only ticked for the security of it.

The Soviet squinted to observe such austere buildings in his view. If he hadn't spent hours at his post, he might have seen the street-light as a living soul. It’s slender facade was parallel to those of his peers. The deliriosity the night-sky held breezed against his pale forehead, thoughts of slumber enticed him, but he couldn't allow such an unprofessional action as he rested against the wall. The corporeal representation of horrid was what he too, now attempted to find a moment of calm in. His slumber could be a secret that only he and the stars of the night sky bore, a hushed whisper that could never vanish from the two. 

The twilight soon broke from the pactum, causing the fatigued man’s mind to stir. Vigilance too became awake from its slumber as his eyes danced across the stage of his perspective, soon bowing down to release a final movement. He discovered a paper, aged as the ones he held in his pocket were as well. His hands trembled, every joint flaring up from the frigid weather which stood hunched over his shoulder, it’s prying eyes glared onto the object with curiosity. But he had no reason to blame the cold for such, as he too felt intoxicated with interest with this mere object. Joseph’s fingers worked delicately in disfiguring the curled stationary into the form it took as its previous owner gilded their pen across it.

“I apologize if this somehow gives you harm, yet I have always wondered what person lays beyond me on the other side. Look up at the wall, to your left,”  
Nausea climbed his throat, protesting the use of oratory as he was accustomed to dwelling in his lonesome. He had never found reason to speak in this strikingly familiar intraurban, and it had twisted his voice into the weakness of a sickly child. His thoughts cowered, fearing the consequences of running outside the safety of his conscience. If he allowed freedom to his cogitations, he could become intertwined with vulnerability, the string slowly engraving into his neck as if it were marble. Or if he granted their liberation, the string could allow for the consolidation of two. This pronounced a third fatal truth; there was not one absolute in the nature of humans.

Joseph was aware of his indecisity, yet there was no time for it’s presence. He arose from the pavement which gave it’s condolences in his hour of slight hysteria, scanning the vivid colors the concrete that stood beside him gifted. His eyes climbed up the wall similar to the attempts of many before them, but succeeded as they fell onto the guard tower resting parallel to his. At first, nothing consumed his view but the unsightly looks of the barbed wire which spread itself out over-top.

“Hello?” the Russian croaked hoarsely, his deteriorating accent laced itself through the consonants, producing nothing but a feeble melody which bounced off the near wall.

“Hello,”

He could have sworn that the new-found response was just a product of his own melody which rushed away and returned to loop through his ears once again. But this melody was softer than any he could bring about. It marinated in the wind above him, trickling down as a gift into his ears who usually felt such a need to twist the reality of such sound. Yet they, too, enjoyed the calm it emitted, as if it were a piece by Mozart, every vowel was set to match an unoccupied consonant; nothing in such a tone was left up to chance.

He glanced over into the direction which held his eyes captive a mere few seconds ago, but saw one who breathed the air as he did. One who lifted his hand ever so gingerly to wave to the other, allowing Joseph to bask in the peaceful silence as his gaze focused on him.

“Do you have artwork on your side of the wall?”

“No.”

This came as no surprise to Joseph, for he believed that the side which stood beyond his reach held nothing less than the ideals of perfection. There was no need for backlash in an area which observed the American dream, for that, was the ideals of perfection in the Soviet’s mind. It held the democratic sun that the moon desired, as it’s light faded as it became nothing more than puppetry for authority.

“What is your name?”

“Elias,”

Elias. Though he failed to grant the word to pass the safety of his closed lips, it took hold of his mind and evicted any unrelated thought. The silence was nothing that he had not been accustomed to, yet he was aware that suddenly there was no need for it. As now another breathed the same air as he, and matched the same beat of heart as he. The fourth fatal truth; there may not be mendation without exertion.

‘November 9th, 1989.’ became engraved against the parchment, the journal which entwined and offered unification to the papers as did two contrasting consciences with the realization of this stoned autocrat that laid beside him. Joseph felt the slight nudge given at the tip of his shoulder, sending for him to hide the journal into the pocket of the very coat which now, today, would represent a unity of two. The territory which had once been nothing but a field of unsolicited danger and alienation was set to unravel itself into the image of an ivory dove doing no more except chewing on the stem of an olive branch, but even so, that notion found no refuge in his mind, it was the very thought of Elias that had conquered. Was he, too, congested with the very excitement that had caused the Russian to fall over a mere child in the wake of the day? Or would it be found that he had become indifferent to the situation at hand, barely able to keep himself afloat amongst the vast sea of slumber. 

Ever since the very hour that the two friends had given their first words, nothing had been to chance, only a steady river that laid across the terrain providing such a view that there was no need for worry. Yet now, the thought of how there was no absolute in the nature of humans that had crossed his mind each hour of the day, was too, displayed in such a situation. He could only picture what the German could be thinking, as he was hidden away by the stone that had hid the Soviet away from opportunities and fortune. Joseph should have disliked everything about the other, yet despite the aristocratic traits the boy across the wall flaunted off as if a clipping of diamond, he found no flaws. Elias, too, should have found some blemish on the dull and contradicting personality the veteran displayed, but the list of them was as clear as the difference between sun and moon. The two were incapable of working without each other. For Elias was the sun, and Joseph was the moon. 

The hair that fixed itself on his neck saluted to the sky, feeling the breeze of the hushed whispers that hid away before and behind him. The tools melted into the pale skin of his hand, feeling his lips grow dry at the temptation of throwing it against the wall. But it was all in due time, for just a few minutes separated the sun and the moon. The patriot that stood before him swung his colors high, did he know that he would become engraved into a history book, one that children would point at and question his story? Joseph grinned at such a thought, for everyone who had passed the shoulders of him, flickered their eyes into slumber and had felt relaxation as he. Joseph had thought of fatal truths as quickly as the sun could be stolen by the moon, but it never could amount to the words that would be painted as his narrative in succeeding centuries.

The hammer in his hand ached for release, or perhaps it was his mind attempting to play the victim of temptation. All he could think of was Elias’ own thoughts as hushed whispers mimicking the German’s voice ventured in his mind. His train of thought was interrupted by the hollering of those who marched on the same concrete as he, and heart’s beat matching the chanting in remembrance of those whose life passed as they waited for such a day. The first strike sounded parallel to the drums that would terrorize his ears during his years of service. From the dawn of the morning to the moon’s unveiling, it had stayed with him, the mere sound that a soldier dreaded had turned into excitement’s muse.

Quadriga gazed down on the vast sea of the integration of nationalities, but as of today, they were all to be considered Germans, and were wearing such a title with patriotic pride. Joseph’s hands cried onto the body of the tool he possessed as his eyes moved across the artwork which had displayed it’s flamboyancy since he had first arrived in East Berlin. Did Elias share the same view of such meaningful work as he, or was the sun shining too bright for there to be any need of protest? It had been a question fellow guards burdened, and now the ache it brought was vetoed by the law that it first was created by. There was no time for philosophical and debatable inquiries, for that was a scholar’s job, and he was no scholar. Only a guard, a guard who’s beat inflicted by his tool against the wall would now guard the people instead of the government. Communism had not been equality. Equality, was his expression as he watched fellow men break the artwork. It was not pursued of denial, but of freedom, liberty that shall seep from a country’s lips until the fall. Germany was not falling; it was only beginning to climb.

The wall that he had once called the corporal representation of horrid had now crumbled before him, painting it’s face into peace and freedom. The Russian and Germans alike stepped over the rubble that still held the vivid colors they had stared at for years before. But the symbolism nor historical breakthrough this moment set a fly was not what stirred his mind. It was searching for his other, the light to his darkness, the sun to his moon.

And the beam of light he had found. Elias intertwined himself in Joseph’s arms, structuring the moment into as if it were a solar eclipse, the earth being fittingly, the crumple of tyranny they walked on. The sun and the moon cried together, the two that had once worked separately had now found each other. Churches of words had been built in their honor, for now, there was no need for it, only for silent prayer. The Soviet dove his hand into the pocket of his viridescent coat, pulling out the bundle of papers who relied on the leather and string as the function of the earth relied on the sun and the moon.  
It opened to a clean slate; parchment with nothing but the slight engravement from previous days of his pen’s performance. As he let it perform for its final hour, Joseph watched as it veiled the etching done with it’s cerulean color. 

Elias, too, beamed his eyes down with interest to the tracks made. His lips pursued into a grin, the two men’s fixed position looked as if Greek statues; Helios and Selene.

Elias Lindemann. West German.

And there in time they stayed, but for history would erase their names. There was no need for it’s condolences; only for those of his ignite. Yet, it defined a fifth fatal truth; a sequel. Though there was not one absolute in the nature of humans, there had been in the reliance of the sun and the moon. For without the two’s harmony, all would be lost.


End file.
